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14.42% Heretic Mage: Rise of the Dark God’s Necromancer / Chapter 28: Confrontation

Chapter 28: Confrontation

He focused on only three Spells for the moment, Splinter because it would be the most useful in a fight, Invigorating Touch because it was paramount to master for the Apprentice and Practitioner Spells, and Withering Touch to compensate for the life force he was expending.

Marrow Memory and Bone Bullet would have to wait until later. He didn't intend to just sit on his haunches for months on end, studying Spells. He couldn't do so even if he wanted to.

There was only so much he could learn from sapping yeast and throwing a blob of dark energy at nothing. He suspected that if he wanted to improve past the Apprentice rank, he'd need other targets to test his Spells on.

Morne cast both with and without incantations, feeling for differences between the two. Halfway through the next day he finally emptied his Chimh Well entirely, and waited a few hours for it to refill completely before continuing.

Along with gaining a better understanding of his Spells, he also felt his Chimh Well straining against its boundaries, trying to grow, and his Tower attempting to unlock its other floors.

Of course, neither happened since he was casting mere Novice-Grade Spells, but it urged him on nonetheless. The faster he reached Eme and could cast these Spells as Apprentice-Grade Spells, the faster he could start his journey to true power.

.......

Morne dropped the graying dough onto an empty plate, heaving a light sigh.

This dough wasn't the same dough he was using four days ago, it was new. He had started forfeiting the baked bread from his dinners in favor of the dough so he could continue his training.

The chicken legs and beans were enough to keep him satisfied, along with the breakfast that varied by the day, and he had to get change for a large silver after using it for a drink.

His hazel eyes went to the gaps in the wooden shutter on the window, and the soft light spilling into the room from without. He estimated it was around the twilight hours.

Today was the last day he'd have this room. He didn't intend to stay any longer after the four nights he had paid for upfront. He'd have to be out of here by noon tomorrow.

At the same time, he knew he could squeeze in a few more hours of work before he had to head to bed, so he picked up the dough again and threw himself back into training.

.......

Morne left the inn the next morning when the sun had just started to peek over the mountains in the distance.

He had no idea where to start searching for the second book. Ondethale wasn't as large as the Opyek Empire, but it was still far too large for one man to comb through on his own.

So, Morne started to search for a library or bookstore.

Knowing the Coltha, these books were probably hundreds of years old at the least, and their unique defense mechanism – the illegible words that formed whenever an unapproved viewer looked at the book – was sure to be remembered by those who laid eyes on them.

If it was in a long-forgotten ruin as Malcinson had suggested, then there might be a chance of the book being mentioned in history books or fairy tales.

And if it was in the hands of a private collector, perhaps the collector was the bragging sort, and mentioned it every time he had company. Who knows? Maybe he had even written a book on it.

Morne's thoughts were interrupted as he noticed a man who stood at the end of the street.

The man had a smug smirk on his face and eyes that raked over Morne like a farmer eyeing his prized cow. His clothes were no better than Morne's, but his hands were adorned with gaudy rings that sparkled in the light of the rising sun.

Other than him and Morne, this street was devoid of people, the backs of buildings on either side of them.

Morne tried to go around the man, only for the stranger to step to the side, blocking Morne's path.

Morne gave the man an unamused stare, which only caused the stranger's smirk to widen.

"You're a pretty big guy," the stranger said, the glint of metal appearing each time he opened his mouth.

Was his tongue… made of metal?

Morne grunted and tried to step around, only to be blocked again. His fingers twitched at the obstruction. He had little patience for such games.

"Hey, now, big guy," grinned the man. "I'm not done talking to you yet."

"Move," Morne said.

"Move?" chuckled the man. "Why would I do that? Could it be that you want to get away from those guys?"

The *snikt* of swords being drawn reached Morne's ears, and his eyes narrowed angrily.

"Why don't you stay and talk for a bit?" the stranger said, the menacing tone indicating that it wasn't a suggestion. It was a command. "I'm sure we have something to – GAH!"

Morne's fist slammed into the man's face, sending him stumbling back as blood splattered on the ground and the man's clothes.

Morne whirled around to face the others, only for two segmented lengths of steel cord to fly forward and wrap around his raised arms.

Morne hissed as tiny blades embedded in the cords cut into his flesh.

It didn't deter him for long, and he sprinted forward to the attacker on the left, who was less than twenty feet away.

He realized quickly, as the fourth and final attacker opened her mouth, that it wasn't swords that had made that noise.

As Morne ran forward, the metal tongue in this woman's mouth went from thick and short to thin and long like a frog's tongue, the metal scraping against itself producing a sound not dissimilar to that of drawing a sword.

That tongue flew out of her mouth just as the man on the right started to reel in his tongue, the sudden resistance tugging at Morne's arm and stalling him just long enough for the woman's tongue to reach its destination.

It stabbed into the flesh just below his collarbone, and Morne spied transparent green liquid coating the blades.

The man on the left reeled his tongue in taut, and the two circled around to Morne's sides, keeping his arms extended as the one he had punched wrapped his tongue around Morne's waist from behind.

It was over in seconds.

The woman retracted her tongue and walked forward, looking Morne up and down with a malicious glimmer in her eye.


Chapter 29: Meat

The woman sidled up toward Morne with a large grin on her face, showing surprisingly perfect teeth for a criminal.

She had the black hair and square pupils of an Ondethalian, a pair of traits her compatriots lacked, and when she spoke, her voice was like honey.

"Well, well, well," she said, gray eyes peering into Morne's hazel depths as she advanced. The anger in his eyes earned a flicker of amusement from her. "You're a big one, aren't ya?"

"Dat's what I thaid!" the man to Morne's back said with a chuckle, having a hard time speaking with his tongue wrapped around his captive's waist. "Ithn't he perfecth?"

"Jem, stop talking with your tongue out," snapped the woman. "You sound ridiculous."

"Thorry, Troth," the man said apologetically.

While this "Troth" was chiding her subordinate, Morne pointed a finger toward her with his still-extended right arm.

"Splinter Shot."

Nothing happened.

It took Morne a second to realize that the words he had spoken weren't "splinter shot" but were instead a mangled mess of incomprehensible syllables.

Shortly after this realization, he noticed that his tongue felt thick and heavy, and his thoughts were similarly sluggish, as if he was drunk.

"Troth" laughed. "He's a Mage!" she hollered, whooping with joy. "We hit the jackpot here, boys!"

The three men learned their lesson from the previous scolding and didn't speak, but their eyes lit up with greed when they heard this.

The woman clapped her hands on Morne's shoulders, tilting her head back to look at Morne's face. "Name's Tross," she said. "And you're my cash cow. Thank you for your valiant sacrifice to line our pockets, good sir. Have a nice nap."

Morne's eyelids suddenly became as heavy as stone, and his thoughts slowed to a crawl.

.......

The large man slumped forward onto his knees, prompting her to step back.

"Holster those knives, boys," she commanded, gesturing at her three companions.

The three men retracted their tongues with the utmost care, careful not to damage their catch any further than they already had.

The four gathered around Morne as he flopped onto his side, and Tross pointed at Hendrey and Gentrey.

"Bandage him up. I don't want him bleeding out before we bring him in."

The two nodded and knelt down, tearing off strips of Morne's shirt to bandage his wounds. They certainly weren't going to ruin their own clothes.

"What rank is he, do you think?" asked Jem. "Practitioner? Adept?"

"Not a chance," Tross shook her head. "You saw how he fought. He didn't even think of using magic first. I'd say Novice, *maybe* Apprentice. Either way, this is still quite a find."

"He looks like he's from the empire," Jem commented. "Definitely not from around here. Everyone in this town knows not to go down this street, even the guards."

"It's best we stop wondering about the hows and the whys, and just thank Reynta that this gold mine landed at our feet," Tross replied.

Jem nodded. Personally, he didn't think this find had anything to do with the Goddess of Luck and Currency. He was the one who had spotted Morne, didn't he deserve some credit?

But of course, he didn't voice such thoughts. The last person to sour Tross' good mood currently had his severed head shoved up a horse's hindquarters, and he wasn't eager to share that fate.

.......

"Wake up, meat."

A bucket of ice-cold water doused Morne from head to toe, startling him awake.

He instantly tried to jump to his feet, determined to finish the fight, only for chains to stop him dead and the shackles to dig into his wrists.

The man who had thrown the water at him laughed heartily, tossing the bucket aside. "Good, you still have fight in you! Rest up, meat. You're on in five."

The man left without another word, locking the cell door behind him.

Morne forced the tension out of his limbs, sitting back down as he examined his surroundings.

He was in the middle of a dimly lit, dirt-walled cell. The only way out was the barred door in front of him, which was also the only source of light.

His shirt was in tatters, missing entire strips, which he found in a corner, soaked through with blood.

His arms were covered in thin, long scabs that burned every time his heart pumped a wave of blood through them, but they remained sealed even as he flexed his arms, testing them.

Metal shackles bound his wrists and ankles, connecting him to the ground via chains attached to metal plates embedded in the floor. These chains were only three inches long at most, hence his earlier struggle when trying to stand.

His mind was clear, and his tongue felt normal, so whatever poison that Tross woman had injected into him must have worn off. When he looked for the entrance wound, he found naught but his own flesh.

The dull thump of boots caught his attention, and he looked up to see a man, different from the one earlier, sliding a key into the cell door's lock.

He left it open as he strode in, crossing his arms as he scowled down at Morne.

Despite Morne sitting on his ass, this man stood barely two heads taller. He couldn't have been more than five feet tall, but his Ondethalian eyes regarded Morne with the same interest as that of a farmer judging his cattle.

"I'm going to release you," the man said in a deep voice befitting his grizzled face, if not his height. "Don't think of attacking me. There are hundreds of armed people out there that can cut you down in seconds if you try to escape.

"You do what I say, when I say, or I'll snuff out your life to save myself the trouble."

He didn't wait for Morne to reply, waving his hand at the other man's shackles.

They opened with a click, slipping off Morne's wrists and ankles and allowing him to stand to his full height.

He towered over the Ondethalian, but the smaller man simply turned and gestured for Morne to follow, completely unfazed.

Not seeing another choice, Morne followed.


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